


Cold Comfort

by Gunshy Fiction (Defiler_Wyrm)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Lucifer as Sam | Sam as Lucifer, POV First Person, Poetry, Vessel Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Gunshy%20Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the vessel for an angel changes one irrevocably. Some are shaken; some are broken; some will always burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> It's not as NSFW as it sounds but take it as you will. Inspired by [this post](http://gunshynonymous.tumblr.com/post/35071243173/flutiebear-do-you-remember-how-lucifer-said) on Tumblr.

I held you inside me as deep and wide as galaxies  
filled to bursting, purest white awash in red,  
and I could never lie to you, not really—  
no more than you could to me (for all we lie  
to ourselves, to our brothers, to the world)  
and I knew you then, Son of Morning:  
all you are and were and could have been.  
You filled me til you buzzed against my skin  
in liquid sparks and you were cold, so cold inside  
like the corpse of a long-dead star, so cold inside  
my teeth still chatter in the night. I held you in  
as I was always meant to do (and I was  
born to this the same as you: damned by our Fathers  
to say Yes to each other for saying No to them)  
thick and dark as blood spilling over my tongue  
and you were right. I could deny  
the way I grew to welcome the cold consuming you  
when it ate away at the inside of me  
but you would only tut and make my lips smile  
as you used my voice to call me a liar.

                    I remember  
how it felt, encased in ice and power, your perfect storm  
directing me and you and us in your sun-lost fury  
blazing through my nerves, how you  _burned_  
                    and I remember  
the quiet moments when you’d rest your wings  
how you’d speak to me when no one else could hear  
and your cold was gentle snowflakes in the dark.  
I will never be warm again.

—but then  
it seems now you’re gone, our fate rewritten  
(though still damned I guess) the world’s too hot  
against my skin — too open, I’m too empty,  
and that gaping hole that you were meant to fill  
yawns once again without you here  
to crush me up against my own insides  
and whisper your devotion in my ear. It always seems  
I’m overheated now. The fire and sweat you left behind  
make my breath thick and dark as blood   
where once you frosted windows with a sigh.  
I knew every barb and hurt of you and maybe—  
maybe given time — maybe if things were different —  
you would have let me clip the one and soothe the other  
and you might have held me inside, too. In time  
you might have  _listened_  rather than just speak.  
In the end that was the difference between us,  
Morning Star: for all we share, for all that we’re the same,  
you let hope gutter out down in the dark  
but I still burn as hot as you do cold. 

                    I remember  
how it felt, bathed in your memories of  
billion-year-old songs and wounds you nursed for aeons  
rattling at the new cage of my bones  
                    and I remember  
how you’d ease me down so that I wouldn’t see  
the worst of what you did, and how you clung  
so desperately to the words  _It always had to be._  
I will never be cold enough again. 


End file.
